


Just this night

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [14]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, FebuWhump2021, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Injury, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, no beta we die like Geralt’s last shred of innocence on Yen’s magical sex unicorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “You’re awake.”Geralt turns his head to see Yennefer walk into his field of view, all poise and not an insignificant amount of fury. It is the emotion she always defaults to when she wants to cover up her worry.“I am,” he confirms. He so desperately wishes she would come closer, would let him hold her hand.*Geralt gets grievously injured during a monster hunt. Yennefer manages to save him at the last moment and takes care of him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Just this night

**Author's Note:**

> I ADORE the GerYen-dynamic from _Time of Contempt_ in particular so I really wanted to write a little piece for them for Febuwhump. This one's set at some point after _Shard of Ice_ but before the main events kick off, where their relationship is still quite complicated but it's also clear that Yennefer is looking out for him behind his back but without him knowing. 
> 
> Today's prompt was: "I didn't mean it."

This was a terrible idea.

Geralt had known it before he even started the contract. He’d thought it when he had talked to the alderman to get more details about the disappearing inhabitants of the village. He’d thought it when he went out to the swamp and found the traces of blood littering the ground. He’d thought it when he’d spotted the telltale signs of kikimoras – not just one, but a whole nest of them – and realised that he was low on potions and didn’t have enough insectoid oil to properly coat his sword with. He’d thought it even as he shrugged it off as a minor problem and readied himself for the fight.

He’d thought it – and now he has to pay for it.

His blood looks oddly bright splattered on the swamp’s tussocks. A distant part of Geralt is wondering how he is still standing, since so much of it seems to be outside his body rather than inside it. And all over some kikimoras; Vesemir and his brothers would have a laugh at him if they could see him now (well, perhaps after patching him up and admonishing him for getting into a fight despite his lack of potions and oils). Either way, the likelihood that he is going to make it out of this swamp alive seems to be diminishing by the moment.

Geralt grits his teeth and moves another few steps forward, legs dragging through the murky water which surely isn’t doing his wounds any favours. At least he still vaguely remembers the path he had taken into this place, so that he won’t go down as the one unlucky Witcher who has managed to drown himself in a swamp. A glorious end indeed.

He limps another few paces, using the branches of a small, solitary tree to drag himself along. One of the branches breaks off and Geralt stumbles, falls forwards. He manages to reach out and catch himself on his arms just in time to keep his face from an unceremonious meeting with the murky water. He spits out curses in every single language he knows at the pain singing through his body. The kikimora’s sharp pincers had caught him in several places, pierced his armour and sunk deep into his flesh. The worst ones are the deep wounds on his upper arm, a scratch along his ribs, and a deep wound along his thigh that has only narrowly missed some of the more important blood vessels and is still bleeding far more than it should. He wonders for a moment if the energy it takes to get up and keep slogging through this landscape of misery is truly worth it, or if he should just give up here and now.

In the end, he decides that it _is_ worth it – if only to make it back to Roach. He cannot leave his trusted mare to her fate all alone in the wilderness. She is crafty, yes, but a pack of determined wolves would be enough to bring even her down. Besides, his supplies are there, and whilst he is out of all the important potions, he does still have some crushed and dried celandine petals, enough for a tea that might help him heal a little faster.

The damn swamp seems ten times as big as it was when he first arrived here to find the kikimoras. He vaguely recalls having needed only a few minutes to traverse it from its edge to the kikimora nest; now he could have sworn that he’s been slogging through the muck for an hour at least. Geralt heaves himself back up to his legs, swaying dangerously. At least, he can now spot the tree line in more detail, a good sign that he is getting closer to the edge. Not far now, and then he will be able to rest.

A dry croak makes his head whip around and he curses. Of course, his already shitty luck has taken an even worse turn now. Drowners. At least three of them, probably attracted by the scent of fresh blood. They are fast, already closing in on him as far as he is able to tell from the sounds. There is no way that he will be able to outrun them, none. Geralt grits his teeth and moves his leatherbelt, pulls out his silver sword. The movement is enough to make him dizzy again, but he tries to find a fighting stance nonetheless. At least he won’t die drowning in a bog – he’ll get eaten by drowners instead. Still a rather lousy end.

He manages to form a half-baked Igni that catches the first drowner square in the chest. For a moment he wishes he was as strong at signs as Eskel, but of course, wishes are entirely useless in his current position. Geralt evades the claws of the second drowner, slashes down with his sword. It severs the drowner’s arm, but instead of dying, the creature only screams and leaps backwards, ready to attack again. He hears a growl behind him and just manages to leap aside when the third drowner attacks him from behind.

Geralt tries to form another sign, but this time, his Igni barely heats the air, any magical energy he might have had utterly spent. He manages to sever the head of the first, half-burnt drowner with one last burst of energy. An attempt to kick the legs out from under the second, one-armed one only ends in him losing his own balance and it is sheer luck that gets his sword through the drowner’s chest before its claws can scratch his face open. This one last drop of luck runs out quickly enough, however, when the third drowner comes up from behind again. This time, Geralt isn’t fast enough to evade it, and the necrophage’s teeth sink into the unprotected skin of his upper arm near the elbow, right below the protection of his shoulder armour.

Geralt howls in fury and pain and blindly stabs behind him with his sword. It meets resistance with a wet sound, and he turns, stabbing again and again until he can be sure that the drowner won’t be getting up any time soon.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. A drowner bite is always bad news, pretty much guaranteed to get infected. Without any of his potions, and such a deep wound to boot…Geralt is no longer sure that he will live to see the end of this day. Or the end of this swamp, for that matter.

He tries to drag himself up, but it takes two steps before he stumbles again, sinking up to his elbows into the mucky water. His brothers would be so angry at him if they could see him now. Jaskier, too. And Yennefer…he swallows, trying to hold on to their pictures in his mind as he drags himself towards a small bit of dry tussock. At least he won’t drown.

Geralt can no longer keep his eyes from falling shut and he wonders idly whether anyone will find him here, or whether his bones will simply lie here forever, picked clean by the crows and necrophages. There is an odd sound not far from him, a mumbled curse and a splash, but he is far too tired to open his eyes.

The last thing his confused brain notices before he blacks out is the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries.

*

Geralt cannot help but be surprised when he opens his eyes again. It is very apparent that he isn’t in any sort of afterlife – he is in far too much pain for that. He tries to move and groans. It feels like fire is flowing through his body, emanating from his leg and arm and he decides that trying to move any of his limbs right now would be rather unwise. At least he can try to open his eyes though, make sure he isn’t in any danger, although it is unlikely he is. He can smell lilac and gooseberries still, and the scent fills him with warmth and an ache so different from that of his wounds, but nonetheless painful.

“Yen,” he whispers, forcing his eyes to open. He is greeted by a familiar sight – a room stuffed to the brim with oddities and artefacts, magical and otherwise. They are everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, distributed around shelves, although all arranged in an orderly fashion. The sight of the ceiling alone is so familiar that Geralt could conjure it up in his sleep. Some of his favourite memories are from this place – and one or two of his least favourite ones, too.

“You’re awake.”

Geralt turns his head to see Yennefer walk into his field of view, all poise and not an insignificant amount of fury. It is the emotion she always defaults to when she wants to cover up her worry.

“I am,” he confirms. He so desperately wishes she would come closer, would let him hold her hand.

“Good.” She sighs, finally settling down in a chair next to the bed he’s currently lying in. “It would be disappointing to know that all the effort I went through to rescue and heal you was for nothing.”

“How did you find me?”

“Believe it or not, it was sheer coincidence.” Yennefer waves her hands. “I was visiting the village and the alderman mentioned a Witcher with white hair who was slightly late in returning from his contract at the swamp.”

“And you chased after me?” Geralt cannot help the slight lilt of amusement that makes its way into his voice.

“I didn’t _chase_ after you.” Yennefer presses her lips together, but Geralt can see the softness beneath the fury in her eyes. “As I said, it was mere coincidence. Besides, perhaps you could care to explain to me why a rescue was necessary in the first place, oh mighty Witcher?”

“I was unlucky. Made some bad calls.” Geralt wants to shrug but remembers just in time that it wouldn’t be such a good idea. He reaches out with his healthy arm instead, brushes his fingers over Yennefer’s when she doesn’t move. “Thank you, Yennefer.”

Yennefer’s breath seems to hitch in her throat as she looks down at their hands. She doesn’t move to reciprocate Geralt’s gesture, but neither does she pull away.

“How is it that it’s always you who gets unlucky?” she finally asks. “Bad luck seems to be following you these days.”

“No more than any of the other Witchers,” Geralt assures her, although he _has_ had some rotten luck recently, that much is true. Yennefer snorts softly, drawing his gaze from their hands back up to her face. Her beauty always arrests him, no matter how many times he sees her. Even now, when most of what is between them is broken hearts and shards of ice.

“I daresay you run into trouble more often than your brothers,” Yennefer contradicts him. “How are they, anyway?”

“As ever. Vesemir grumbles and harrumphs whenever we return, but is glad to see us. Lambert pisses off whoever he can. Eskel carries out his tasks quietly and dutifully, for the most part,” Geralt reports dutifully, following her desire to steer the conversation away from them. Yennefer is agitated, that much he can tell, although he doesn’t know whether it’s his presence here, or something else.

He shifts a little, trying to ease his cramped muscles. He gets rewarded for his efforts by another bout of nausea and sharp arrows of pain shooting through his leg and arm, so strongly that he has to close his eyes, concentrate on breathing for a few seconds in order not to scream. Yennefer’s hand is on his shoulder, pressing gently into his fevered skin, as cold as ice.

“Easy.” Her voice is soft and her scent is pillowing him, covering him like an old favourite blanket. “You’re still running a fever. Let me have a look at the wounds.”

“Yen,” he murmurs, still unable to open his eyes. She takes her hand away and for a moment he panics. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” She sighs. “I’m right here. But I need to take care of your wounds.” Geralt nods, still with his eyes closed, trying to convince the hammering heart in his chest that she speaks the truth. He remembers the black kestrel, remembers her words and the sadness that had slowly made its way into their lives until there seemed to be nothing left for it to devour. Yen begins to unwrap the bandages around his arm and leg, her movements brisk but not unkind. Geralt manages to pry open his eyes again only to find that his sight has gone fuzzy. Suddenly he feels the need to speak, needs to hear her voice again. He remembers their last conversation in Aedd Gynvael, has played it back hundreds of times in his memories, wondering if there was anything that he could have said or done differently.

“Yen.” Her ministrations pause only for a second before she continues. He winces at the pain but forces himself to keep talking. “When…when I spoke of cell memory. That I had no real emotions. Said that loving you was beyond me as a Witcher. I…I didn’t mean it.”

Yennefer stops what she is doing. Silences suffuses the room in the wake of his words, and he strains his hearing. He can sense the faint sound of her heartbeat, the way her clothes are rustling, smells the pungent herbs and salves in the air used for healing him, layered over the always present scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“I know,” she finally says. “Geralt, I…not now. Let me look after your wounds first. You need to rest. Sleep and heal. Sit up and lean against me.”

He tries to do as she tells him to, although the weakness that suffuses his entire body is refusing to leave. In the end, Yen has to help him upright, her fingers still cold to the touch.

“There.” She guides his forehead until it is pillowed against her shoulder, her rich black curls tickling his skin. He closes his eyes again and breathes in the familiar scent of her skin, listens to her heartbeat. It makes him ache inside at the same time that it comforts. He doesn’t move to embrace her or do anything else as she begins to unwind the bandage around his ribs.

“I need time, Geralt,” Yen says when she is done cleaning the wound and begins to smear her poultice over it. His breathing is ragged but he forces himself to calm his heartbeat, to breathe through the pain the way he was taught all throughout his Witcher training, anchoring himself to Yennefer’ presence. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled against her shoulder.

“I know. I am, too.” She takes a moment to squeeze his arm before using a new pair of bandages to wrap up his wound again. He is dizzy when she is done, almost grateful to be able to lie back, save for where it means he won’t be having her so close anymore. She moves on to his other wounds next, quiet and methodical in her work as she is with everything. He endures, bites back the occasional groan when she hits a particularly sensitive spot.

“There, all done.” Yen takes a moment to check her handiwork, before putting her hand on his arm, not moving it away despite her words. “Perhaps avoid trying to repeat such a foolish venture again in the future?”

“I will do my best.” Geralt manages a half-hearted smile. Instead of a reply, Yen lets her hand slip down his arm instead, fingertips following his scars. She intertwines her fingers briefly with his, squeezing before letting go. Geralt doesn’t try to hold on to her; trying to hold on to Yen is like trying to trap a storm in a bottle. By the gods, he misses her.

He watches as she moves about the room again, cleaning up the old bandages and medical supplies that aren’t needed anymore. His eyes are growing heavy, despite the pain that still clings to him, growing whenever he attempts to move.

“Yen,” he says, his voice rough and barely more than a whisper. She hears him anyway, turning around with a questioning glance. He shifts his arm, opens his palm and holds it out in her direction. “Lie with me?” he asks. “Just for tonight. Please.”

Yennefer presses her lips together until they form a thin line. Geralt can see the denial on her tongue her desperate desire to spare them both more emotional warring with the urge to soothe his physical ones.

“I won’t do anything,” he says. Not that he could anyway, in his current state. “I just…would like to have you close. Just this one night, if you want to as well. Please.”

Yennefer’s gaze softens as her eyes roam over his figure, the bandages stretched over his skin. She sighs and comes closer, clothes rustling.

“I do want to,” she says, fingers trailing once again over his arm. “Just this night,” she adds, as she slips off her the outer layers of her clothing and lifts the blanket to lie down next to him.

Geralt closes his eyes then, turning to lie on his uninjured side. He won’t try to force any touch on her – just having her here, so close to him, is enough. He can feel the warmth of Yennefer’s exhale prickle on his skin as she scoots closer and, mindful of his wounds, wraps an arm around his waist from behind, searching for his hand.

Their fingers intertwined, Yennefer’s body fits as perfectly against his as it always did.


End file.
